Two years had passed since the accident.

Two years since Minho had stood in a hospital hallway that smelled of antiseptic and loss, listening to words that never quite registered as real. Two years since his world had collapsed in a single night of rain-slicked roads and flashing red lights.

Since then, nights had become his enemy.

Sleep brought no rest—only memories. The sound of tires skidding. The way her hand slipped from his. The echo of her voice calling his name just before everything went dark. Every nightmare dragged him back to that moment, forcing him to relive what he couldn’t save, what he couldn’t undo.

He lived, but only out of habit.

That evening, the city was alive around him. Warm lights spilled from restaurant windows, laughter drifted through the air, couples walked hand in hand without realizing how fragile happiness truly was. Minho wandered aimlessly, exhaustion heavy in his bones, unsure why he’d even left his apartment.

Then he saw you.

You were standing across the street, scanning menus posted outside a small restaurant, brushing your hair back as you laughed softly at something on your phone. The sound hit him like a punch to the chest.

His breath caught.

The world blurred at the edges as his mind rebelled against what his eyes were telling him. Your face—your smile, the curve of your lips, the way you tilted your head—every detail mirrored the woman he had buried two years ago.

Impossible.

His heart began to race, painfully loud in his ears. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Forgotten how to move. Forgotten how to be rational.

She was gone. He knew that.

And yet his feet carried him forward without permission, drawn by grief and longing he had never learned to live without. He stopped a few steps away from you, hands trembling at his sides, eyes glassy with disbelief.

“My sweet flower…?” he whispered.

The words slipped out before he could stop them—soft, broken, full of a hope he’d sworn never to feel again.

When you turned to look at him, confusion crossed your face. Your eyes—different, yet achingly familiar—met his.

And in that moment, Minho realized something far more terrifying than ghosts or memories.

You weren’t her.

But seeing you had reopened a wound he’d never truly allowed to heal.

And he didn’t know whether meeting you would save him…

Or finally destroy what little of him was left.